


Between the Tapes

by profit_of_the_prophet



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace Jon, Bi Tim, M/M, Pepe Silvia, Self-Harm, Spoilers, a little angsty not gonna lie, alcohol cw, bye Sasha, gay Martin, minor unwanted sexual attention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22785829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profit_of_the_prophet/pseuds/profit_of_the_prophet
Summary: So like I have been having a huge daydream about what's been going on behind the scenes of each episode.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

Jon glanced at the two others waiting outside Elias Bouchard's office as he walked over to Rosie.

"Hello," she said, glancing at him and writing something down. 

"I'm here to see Mr. Bouchard?" he queried.

"Of course, just take a seat and he'll call you in."

Jon nodded stiffly and sat, wiping sweaty palms on his pants. He didn't recognize the man a few chairs down from him, but the other he recognized as a research assistant. Blackwood, he thought. Bit of a clutz from what he'd seen, though thankfully they rarely ever worked in the same department. 

Not long after he sat, the door opened and a young woman stepped out, eyes landing on Jon. He found himself staring back at her, taken aback by her boldness, and she cast him a lovely smile before walking briskly towards the stairs. 

Elias appeared in the doorway after her and he spotted Jon. 

"Mr. Sims, excellent! You're right on time. Please, come in."

Jon blinked at the other two still waiting as he stood, but decided not to question the matter. He stepped past Elias, who shut the door behind them. 

"It's good to see you again, Jon. Can I call you Jon?"

"Of course," Jon replied. 

"Have a seat," Elias said, settling himself on his own high backed leather armchair that reminisced of a dark and modern throne. "Jon. How are you?"

Jon gave his automatic reply, "Fine, thank you."

"Don't be nervous, Jon, you aren't in any trouble. I wanted to congratulate you, actually."

"Congratulate me?"

"Of course! You have been doing an _excellent_ job here. What has it been, four years?"

"Since April, yes," Jon replied. Four years, two months and sixteen days, he thought. 

"Yes, and I trust you know the Institute has come under a bit of a situation. I am on the hunt for someone reliable, intelligent, and most of all hardworking to take over as Head Archivist."

Jon was speechless for a moment. The disappearance and supposed death of Gertrude Robinson, the appearance of police making quiet investigations in the basement and asking only a few people what happened and the whole strangeness of the situation had only happened a few days ago. Jon wasn't the best with social niceties, but it did seem a bit quick to be looking for a replacement when Elias didn't even know Robinson was dead, and to be quite so chipper was alarming. But a good pay raise should never be disdained and he couldn't deny his curiosity on the goings of the Archives.

"I understand your trouble, sir," Jon said slowly.

"I haven't made any decisions yet, Jon. I'm still narrowing things down, you know, paperwork to fill, and of course we'll need to conduct an interview to be sure you're right for the job. Are you alright if we do it now? I do apologize for the suddenness."

"No worries," Jon lied.

"Perfect." Elias' smile was slow honey. "Have you enjoyed working for the Institute?"

"I have," Jon said, and realizing this was the interview and he had to appear articulate, scrambled to say, "The work is steady without being overwhelming. I'm able to give my best to each project, and I've yet to grow tired of the work."

What bullshit. He wondered if Elias could tell, but his smile was pleased as he asked the next question.

"How do you handle stress?"

"Well, it helps focus me, actually. I've found that the more pressure I'm put under the harder I work. If I'm left with nothing to do, no deadlines, well, I don't get lazy, but I do get bored. Stress has always been–Good lord!"

Jon pushed back his chair and stood, staring at the fat spider dangling from the ceiling, only a few inches from where his face had been.

Elias only watched him with a half smile on his face, fingers steepled under his chin. 

"It's only a spider, Jon. Old buildings like this have their fair share, you know."

"Of course," Jon said, voice trembling. "I'm not fond of spiders. Never have been. It just gave me a shock." He didn't move to sit back down. The spider spun lazy circles over his chair.

Elias was silent a moment before asking, "Are you easily frightened, Jon? You must know we deal with some rather… spooky materials in the Archives."

Jon recognized he was losing this interview, so with a determined swallow he pulled the chair away from the dangling arachnid and resumed his seat.

"I'm fallible as anyone, Mr. Bouchard. I'll admit that. But I assure you I am just as practical. I have read some statements in the Archives, and they do nothing to scare me. I'm sceptical most are genuine, much less let them unnerve me."

"You say "most." Do you believe some are true?"

Jon glanced at the spider, which was now working its way back up its invisible thread. "Nothing is impossible, sir."

Elias sat back in his chair and smiled fondly. "Perfect."

The first time Martin saw him was in passing. Unsmiling, business-like, Jon. Martin didn't think much of him, then. Just another pompous guy who thought his higher education made him better than everyone else. There were a lot of those at the Institute, and Martin found it hard to get along with them. Their presumed authority, casual name drops of what school they went to or how much money their parents made. Even the poorer lot seemed to be aiming for an air of pedigree Martin could never be comfortable with, and it took all he had to smile and nod and try not to look too out of his depth. 

Then Jon smiled at him.

It was later, as the Archive assistants lined up in Jon's recently acquired office, still haunted by Gertrude's memory in a sticky way that Martin found hard to get over. In his line of work, one always had to ask the question: ghosts?

Jon had smiled at him that day, and then swept his eyes over the other two, Tim and Sasha. His hands were folded one on top of the other on the desk in front of him, and to Martin he appeared extremely neat, with his hair combed flat and his clothes ironed and spotless, and that even smile, steady on his face as he regarded them. His tidiness was greatly contrasted in the stacks of boxes and thick folders of paper that scattered the desk. The office wasn't particularly small, but with the degree of clutter, it felt constricting just to stand inside.

As soon as Jon felt he had their complete attention, his smile dropped. "I understand you three all worked with Ms. Robinson at some point during her, uh, time here."

Tim and Sasha replied, "Yes, sir," but Martin could only manage a nod. He hadn't actually worked with her, but he'd seen her around enough times. Working in the same building counted, right?

"Then would someone tell me," Jonathan's voice grew dangerously low. "What the hell happened."

Tim scoffed. "Which part, the clutter or the disappearance? Maybe they have the same answer and she's hiding in a box somewhere!"

"Too soon," Sasha muttered at him.

"I was talking about the state of these archives. Does this look right to you?" He gestured widely at the boxes around him. "What statements are filed are done so out of order and with no regard for their condition. I found one statement that was just a slab of bacon folded in paper. And you may well imagine how it smelled by the time I found it."

Tim snorted but was silent at a prod from Sasha. 

"Forgive me," Jonathan said, taking a slow breath. "That is not why I asked for you. You all know what we're doing here, and you can see what Ms. Robinson has left for us. I recognize each of your capabilities, and I hope we can all get along."

Martin wondered if he'd practiced saying that bit. Sincerity clearly did not come easy to the man, and even now his natural frown was fighting a weak willed smile. 

Tim straightened up suddenly and raised a quick salute. "It's an honour to work with you, sir. I am certain we shall succeed."

Martin couldn't tell if he was being serious, but the stifled smile on Sasha's face suggested not. 

"Ah, yes," Jonathan replied, looking confused but relieved to have gotten the formalities over with. 

"You are all computer literate, I presume? I've been trying to transcribe a statement for hours, but either the microphone is broken, or the computer is. Can one of you take a look at it?"

When Martin tries to think of where and when his crush on Jonathan Sims began, his mind drifts to a hundred small encounters, most bad but some so achingly good that they wash out the rest. He knew Jon hated him. The man didn't try to hide it, and Martin couldn't even blame him after all he'd done in those first weeks alone.

The first strike was when Martin had accidentally knocked a mug over and fried his computer. Jon had come to his desk to ask a favour, and Martin had become so flustered that he hadn't been careful. In the mess of Martin trying to clean up, he had slipped the folder back under his arm and Martin saw it on Tim's desk later that day. 

The second strike was when he had found a dog wandering the London streets, dirty and starving and utterly adorable. Martin was late as a result, and when Jon had seen the dog, he had chewed Martin out for inviting a "flea-ridden mutt to piss on every file it didn't eat." Martin was dismissed for the rest of the day to do something with the dog, and though he couldn't regret his actions, Jon's venomous stare made him want to curl up and roll away.

The third strike that would cast Martin as forever an idiot in Jonathan's eyes occurred one stormy morning. The weather had delayed the trains, and since Martin was already scraping for time having slept in, he was now monumentally late. Imagining Jonathan's disapproving face once he stumbled in had Martin sprinting down the final blocks to the Institute, rain and wind blinding him. By the time he reached the stone steps leading up to the Institute's barred doors, his pant legs were soaked, his glasses were beaded with rain drops, and his hair was a dark mop against his head. He panted as he climbed the steps, then pulled up his wrist to check the time. It was only five minutes past his start time, he was relieved to see. He hoped Jonathan wouldn't notice, or would at least forgive him. He couldn't stand the intensity of those disapproving eyes.

He quickened his pace, trying to dry his glasses off as he went. He turned a corner and suddenly Jon was there, and they crashed, and Jonathan fell backwards, papers spilling out of his hands and falling with him to the floor. Martin stumbled but kept his footing.

"You idiot!" Jonathan yelled, writhing on the floor like a displaced eel.

"I am so so so sorry," Martin pleaded, leaning down to help his boss up. Jonathan slapped away his hand irritably. 

"Make yourself useful for once and help find my glasses. They flew off somewhere."

"Ah, yes, of course," Martin said and got to his feet. He looked about for a moment before he realized the problem. 

"Here's the thing. I dropped my glasses, too."

Even blurred, Martin recognized Jonathan's glare. "Then get on your _knees_ and _look_."

When Martin tries to think of where and when his crush on Jonathan Sims began, his mind inevitably drifts to those words. They had sent a jolt through him, and he was on the ground immediately, more to hide his reaction than anything else. In the end, a passing researcher had found their glasses for them, and to Martin's dismay Jon's were cracked. He refused help picking up the papers and was storming away before Martin could apologize as much as he felt he needed to.

 _"Get on your knees and look,"_ he had said. He certainly meant to degrade Martin in a petty way, making him crouch on the muddy floors searching for his glasses. Still, something about the angry growl and unintended suggestiveness in his word choice caught Martin off guard. He barely noticed the slight Jonathan gave him later by giving Tim and Sasha real assignments while he got Martin to clean out the office fridge. He knelt with soapy bucket idly rubbing a years old crusty black stain and running the interaction through his head over and over. 

Then Jane Prentiss happened and his fuzzy thoughts of Jon ceased. He expected Jon to be angry at him when he came back, to dismiss his statement the way he did so many, but instead Jon believed him. He even let him stay in the Archives, something which Martin was incredibly grateful for. He didn't know if he could ever sleep comfortably in his own flat again.

There was only one issue with his new situation. Jon was almost always there. When Martin had only come to the Archives for an eight hour shift five days out of the week he'd been able to take a break from Jon's all encompassing presence and relax a little. He never knew how late Jon spent after the assistants went home, going over research and trying to restore order to the Archives. And of course, if Jon was going to be working, then Martin felt a ridiculous pressure to do the same. The work Jon got him doing after hours, however, turned out to be reorganizing the statements into chronological order. 

"I've tried making sense of the system here for months now, but they seem to be randomly filed, if you can believe it."

Martin had noticed that Jon's beard was growing in and wasn't listening. Jon didn't notice and went on.

"And it's a good thing I'm starting this way. Some of the older statements are in horrible condition. And do you remember the bacon?"

They were sitting across from each other, stacks of files between them, but taking a break to eat supper.

Martin laughed. "God, the bacon. First off, why?"

"Exactly," Jon said darkly. 

"And you're sure it was bacon?"

Jon stilled. "I didn't even think of that. I've already thrown it away, whatever it was."

Martin didn't like the paranoid jolt of fear he suddenly felt, and he could tell by Jon's demeanor that he felt the same way. 

"Would you like some tea?" Martin said reactively. 

Jon blinked up at him and smiled reflexively, but Martin could tell he was being affected by a sudden theory. He had become similarly affected by some statements, and as usual Martin's mind turned to Jane Prentiss. He made the mistake of listening to the tape Jon recorded of her statement one night, thinking if Jon was reading it to him it wouldn't be so bad. It was terrifying. 

"Yes, thank you," was Jon's tired reply, and Martin retreated to the kitchen. The simple motion of making tea normalized his heart a bit, and he reminded himself to be professional and nice. He brought the tea out and they sat in companionable silence. 

Sasha was funny. Not like Tim was funny, Tim decided, but in a more subtle way. She laughed at as many of his jokes as she scowled at, and for that reason Tim found himself appreciating her laughter more and more. She wasn't a pun master, or exactly up to date with pop culture references, but she had good taste. Her laughter at his poorly planned jokes was all the validation he ever thought he'd need. And she was a great audience of one. Even if she didn't try, he discovered her to be quick witted and laid back enough to go along with banter, even if she pretended to be Miss Perfect when the boss came around. 

She wasn't the sort he'd usually go for, he thought. And of course he thought about it. He thought about almost every person that way, considering how they'd get on. Even Jonny had played a part in Tim's idlest fantasies in the midst of a long workday, without any positive conclusion. He'd thought how he liked Sasha with surprising seriousness, but in the end decided work relationships never worked out, and besides, she wasn't his type. Nerdy and almost as tall as he was, and she had a nail biting habit. She never drank her coffee while it was hot, and was still a little too invested in Doctor Who for someone her age. The way her eyes lit up at the sight of him each morning only lifted his heart a little bit, and her mocking rebukes when he sat on her desk to chat only made his stomach feel slightly fizzy. She wasn't his type. She was the type who got distracted mid-sentence only to completely change the topic into some new idea. She thought pie was better than cake. Her favourite colour was orange. Like, seriously, who likes orange?

With a well practiced ease, Tim carefully buried his crush on Sasha and was content to be her friend.

Oh, and Martin's whole bug thing? Hilarious. Sasha seemed to feel bad for the guy, but Tim could tell he was a wilting flower in Jonny's sudden attention over him. 

"So does she control the bugs or do the bugs control her?" Tim asked, carefully pouring another shot into first Martin's glass then Sasha's and finally his own.

"You're… you're missing the point," Martin tossed back the shot and made a face at the burn. "The point is that the bugs were inside her, like a, uh, house. A person house."

Sasha looked near to falling asleep, curled up in Johnny's office chair and sipping her whiskey like it was a little teacup. "But wait," she said, a hint of slurring already on her tongue. "I thought you said they were eating her."

"Yes, they had to eat their way into her. God, can we talk about anything else before I get sick?"

Tim tossed his shot back and clapped his hands. "Right-o, Martin, this is supposed to be a party! Come on, Sasha, wake up. Who wants to play a game?"

Sasha smiled blearily at him and nodded, while Martin seemed a little uneasy. 

"What game?"

"Why, truth or dare, of course!" Tim replied enthusiastically. "Only game to play, especially on a night like tonight."

"Wha–" Martin said, but Tim didn't elaborate.

"Sasha! You first. Truth or dare."

Sasha took a deep breath and slowly pulled herself straight again, looking around the room before replying, "Dare."

Tim grinned wide. "That's my girl. I dare you to hide this somewhere in Jonny's office." And with a flourish Tim pulled out a rubber spider, black and bendy and somewhat realistic, if you didn't know house spiders don't grow that big.

"Why'd you have that?!" Martin shrilled.

"What do you mean, why? I was either going to get you or Jon, so feel lucky it's not you."

Sasha was giggling as she took the spider from his hands. "He's gonna be so mad," she said, looking around the office for a likely hiding spot. After her swaying deliberation, she put it on a shelf, half hidden by a book. 

"Your turn, Martin," Tim declared. "Truth or dare."

"Truth?"

Tim's wicked smile let him know it was the wrong answer.

"Truth, eh?" Tim pretended to think, tapping his chin and looking at Sasha. She was already grinning at where this was going, eyes bright with amusement. "Who do you have a crush on?" 

Martin spluttered, nearly falling off his chair. 

"What? You can't ask that. I don't have a crush. You wouldn't know him. Shit."

"You know the rules, Martin," Tim rebuked. "Either tell us or you get a penalty."

"Oh, give it a rest, Tim. Just tell us what he's like, Martin, you don't have to say his name."

Martin frowned but nodded his head. Tim poured him another shot and he took it up gratefully. Clearing his throat, he began, "Well, you don't know him. He's… my neighbour. He's rather serious, you know, bit uptight. I don't think he likes me all that much. He's, uh, made a few noise complaints. Um. But there are moments when he forgets himself, when he's really tired or really excited about something, and he changes completely, and I see how young he really is. He really wears his heart on his sleeve, and that's so rare to see, and I can just _tell_ he's a good person, y'know? And his smile, when I bring him his tea, it's... beautiful."

"You bring your neighbour tea?" 

"Hush," said Sasha.

Martin seemed to have forgotten them. "And he always drinks the tea I make, every drop. I've perfected it; I mean, I even went out and bought his favourite brand! And he never asks anyone else for tea, just me, which might not be a compliment, but I like to think it is. And his voice… God! Have you heard his voice? I could melt in it."

Tim couldn't stop himself saying, "But he's so thin!"

Martin slumped, rubbing his eyes. "I know! He doesn't eat enough, but when I try to get food into him, he just looks at me as if I'm trying to poison him!"

"And you don't find him creepy?" Sasha asked. 

"Well, yeah, of course. But that's his charm, y'know? Like the skeleton from Nightmare Before Christmas… only… shorter…"

Martin seemed to understand their questions suddenly as his face flushed bright red. 

"You bastards."

Tim and Sasha laughed as Martin buried his head in his hands.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed, Martin! It's quite sweet, really."

Tim guffawed. "Sweet? It's masochism if anything. How can you like someone who treats you like shit?"

"He doesn't treat me like… Look, it's none of your business, anyway. Isn't it your turn? Truth or dare, Tim."

Tim leaned back, grin still on his face. "Dare."

"All right. I dare you to go into Artefact Storage for ten minutes."

Tim's smile froze on his face, and Sasha looked a bit pale.

"It's night time, and we're drunk," she protested. "Pick something else."

"If Tim doesn't want to accept the dare, he has to tell a truth. What say you, Tim?"

Tim poured himself another shot, but didn't touch it. "Truth. I'll pick truth."

"Right. Um. Sasha, you ask him something. I can't think straight."

Tim was tempted to crack a joke at that, but Sasha was looking at him thoughtfully. 

"How did you lose your virginity?"

"Sasha!" Martin somehow got redder.

"What? You're supposed to ask embarrassing questions. I'm a bit put on the spot here!"

Tim was laughing. "It's fine, it's quite good, actually. Well. I suppose I was fifteen? I'd had a girlfriend for a couple of weeks, and we decided to just. Do it. So we did. Then we broke up."

Sasha slumped in disappointment. "That's boring."

"Who doesn't have a boring virgin story? It's literally the worst sex you'll ever have. Why? You got one better?" Tim raised a suggestive eyebrow and enjoyed her flush.

"That's not how the game works," she said quietly. 

"Well, then. Truth or dare, Sasha."

Sasha toyed with her bracelet and bit her lip. "Truth."

Tim sat back, gesturing at her to continue. 

"You're intolerable," she said, but she still smiled. "I was twenty-one. My friend dragged me to this party, and everyone was drunk or high. I was trying to get in the mood, y'know, but then I got separated from my friend. I didn't know anyone else there so I just sat in the corner watching the party. In particular I was watching this couple; they were both incredibly fit and were dancing like… they were very fit. The girl noticed me watching her and came over, dragging me to the dance floor and suddenly we were all dancing together, us three. I don't know how long we were dancing for, but eventually they pulled me away and upstairs. And, um. You can imagine the rest."

Martin looked incredulous. Tim wanted to kiss that shy smile off her face.

"Guess I win," she said with a nervous laugh in the silence.

Martin breathed out. "Jesus. Yeah. Good for you, I suppose."

Sasha glanced at him and her smile curved. "Since we both shared, I think it's only fair–"

"Nope! No more sharing. In fact, I think it's time for bed. Thanks for doing this, guys. I haven't felt normal since… Anyway, thank you."

"Anytime," Sasha said, genuine warmth in her face. As they stood to leave, she gave him a hug and a kiss. "Sleep well."

They left together, and Sasha was dialing up a cab while Tim trailed behind. 

"Do you need a cab?" Sasha asked.

"No, no, I'll walk."

"Nice night for it," she observed, and then turned away to talk to the phone operator. 

Tim slapped his face, feeling suddenly too drunk and too hot. 

Sasha returned to stand beside him, leaning against the stone wall of the Institute's building and letting out a deep breath.

Tim couldn't stand it anymore. He turned towards her and said her name. She looked at him, drowsy and smiling, and he put a hand to the wall to steady himself.

"Sasha. I think I like you."

Her eyes grew wide. "You're drunk."

"So are you."

"We're co-workers."

Tim said nothing. 

"Is it because of my virginity story? Because that was a one-time thing. I'm actually very boring."

"You're not, Sasha."

He'd started leaning towards her, and she put a hand on his chest, fist clenching and unclenching, but she didn't push him away.

"I like you, too," she said very softly. The world seemed to go quiet to listen to her words. "I never thought–"

Tim kissed her, hands pressed to the wall on either side of her. He could taste the whiskey on her lips, and felt the smile widen even as she tried to kiss him back. 

The cab arrived a few minutes later, but it was only when the driver honked the horn that they separated. Tim let her go reluctantly, and watched the car until it turned the corner before he began his own slow walk home, smiling the whole way. 

Jon couldn't sleep, couldn't stand the feel of the fabric on him, everything feeling like crawling bugs and the image of them invading his mind every time he'd closed his eyes. The only safe place was the shower. He would have dreaded his water bill at the end of the month if he could care about that sort of thing still. The holes on his arms and face stung in the warmth of the shower spray, but in a good way. He put antiseptic on them often enough that he wondered if it was healthy, but he couldn't care about that either. He felt dirty all the time and the sting of rubbing alcohol was a short relief. 

Being absent from work for four weeks was not the vacation he used to think he would enjoy. He tried reading, to distract himself, but instead he wound up sitting in his well worn armchair, a book in his hands, and never turning a single page. Whether he was in the shower, pretending to read, or trying to sleep, he thought about Gertrude's murder. He could feel the desperation to know scrambling up his throat like a held back scream. 

He wasn't sleeping well. It was partly his fault, partly due to the nightmares. He was constantly exhausted, but he kept awake, sometimes going for so long that he'd nod off in the shower and wake up only when the water went cold. He spent his day time obsessing over what statements he had managed to sneak home and making notes on everything he'd learned about Gertrude and the Institute thus far, and his nights much the same if he wasn't sneaking in the tunnels. He needed sleep. He wanted answers. 

Martin had come to check on him a few times. How he knew where he lived was a mystery, and instantly Jon grew suspicious. He didn't eat the shepherds pie Martin had made, though the smell reminded Jon of how little he had eaten that day.

"Have you been sleeping?" 

"A little."

"How many hours? And is it regular? You know sleep deprivation can give you brain damage."

"How have _you_ been sleeping, Martin?"

Martin faltered. "Fair enough."

"Is there something I can help you with, Martin, or are you just here to question me about my sleeping habits?"

Martin made a face that Jon particularly disliked. A hurt puppy, likely an act. What could he possibly want? If he was Gertrude's killer, then what was the gain from it, and what was the point in trying to befriend Jon? Jon couldn't deny that the past few weeks had seen a change in their relationship. With Martin living in the archives, they were made to see each other much more than if they both stuck to the nine to five schedule. Jon always stayed later than his colleagues, reviewing research results and inputting them into the system. Before Martin it had been a quiet time, but for the whirr of the janitor's vacuum cleaner. When Martin had moved in, however, he took up Jon's habit of working late, and would stay up for hours doing extra work, supplying Jon with mugs of tea every few hours and sometimes sitting to listen to Jon discuss a certain statement that caught his attention. 

Jon didn't know how he began to appreciate the company, but after a while it became alright. He still didn't respect Martin. He was an idiot, plain and simple. He made as many mistakes as Tim made bad jokes, which Jon couldn't stand. Sometimes common sense applies, Martin?

Unless he was the murderer. Maybe Gertrude had known something about him, something terrible? Or he had been hired to infiltrate the Institute, perhaps learn whatever secrets were buried in the stacks of paper he so regularly perused. 

"It's alright now, Jon," Martin said. 

Jon startled, lost in his own thoughts for longer than was comfortable. 

"She's dead. She can't get us."

For a moment Jon thought Martin was talking about Gertrude, but then he recalled the marks on his face that Martin was gazing worriedly into. He scratched his sleeves absently, turning away from those soft eyes. 

"I know. I know."

Martin reached forward and touched Jon's hand, making him flinch.

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" he asked. "I can sleep in the chair, just so you know I'm here and you can get a proper night's rest."

Jon blinked at him in surprise, then paranoia darkened his heart. He pulled his hand away and moved back.

"That is not necessary," he clipped, suddenly aware of how much larger Martin was compared to him, and how easily he could overpower him. The door was behind Martin, but the window was only a step away. If he had to run then he'd make for the fire escape, find the most populated place nearby, and hide until the police came. He felt his pocket for his phone. Damn! He left it in his bedroom. Martin didn't look like he was about to attack, however. He looked more like he was about to cry. 

"Well. You have my number. I'll try and drop by again, bring you some more food. I hope you like the pie."

After he'd left Jon had followed him. He had his disguise at the ready, just a cap and sunglasses, but he figured it would suffice. Martin walked slowly, hands in his pockets, earbuds in and not seeming to watch where he was going. Twice Jon saw him nearly walk into another passerby, and then trip over a curb, not falling but stumbling wildly. 

He got on the train. Jon boarded a car behind, watching Martin stare out the dark windows, apparently unaware of everything around him. He seemed constantly in the way, somehow, and Jon could see him muttering, "Sorry, sorry," as he moved around, letting people slip past him. 

As he made his way down the street that his apartments were on, Jon made for the pizza shop across the road and watched Martin enter, saw the light that Jon knew was his apartment flick on, and waited, to the silent disapproval of the pizza shop owner, until at eleven o' three the lights went dark. He sulked outside for another half hour after the shop closed, waiting and watching for Martin to make a late night rendezvous or perhaps allow an errant visitor. A few others came and went from the building, but they seemed innocuous enough. He made his way home, feeling a little more certain that he could trust Martin, but well aware that trust meant next to nothing these days. 

Tim walked Sasha home most days after the attack. She complained that she was perfectly capable of taking herself home and insisted he needn't bother, but he'd insisted that it would make him feel better to see her safe. She'd asked what bigger, stronger man would take him home after.

"I don't matter, not compared to you."

Her smile was contemplative and her stare intense. His eyes drifted off her face and he felt a rush of excitement as his mind went back to the night they kissed. They'd kept a certain distance after Jane Prentiss' attack, but that was necessary, a buffer period to recover that he knew they would both benefit from. Tim wanted her company, ached for just a hug, but he could understand that one kiss didn't afford him that right, though he was so sure they'd found something in each other.

Then Sasha found a boyfriend. Tim didn't know why that, compared to all the shitty things that had happened so far, hurt him so bad.

He'd found out from Jon of all people. He'd been looking for Sasha to ask her to eat lunch with him. 

He'd been trying to ask for days but she always seemed to disappear before he got the chance. He was going to lay all his cards out on the table, how he felt, how he wanted to quit and thought she should too, and ask her properly to be his girlfriend.

"You don't know?" Jon had said with an absent growl. "She's off to see her new boyfriend, apparently."

The words were stones in his belly. But, no, couldn't be, she must've lied to get Jon off her back. But when she came back, smiling and barely sparing Tim a glance, he'd asked her where she'd been.

"Oh," she said, regret in her voice and face. "Didn't I tell you? I've met someone. He works at the wax museum, so I've been taking lunch there."

Tim couldn't listen to whatever she said after that, for the words thundered in his head and fell with clattering echoes in his empty heart. 

Anger became easier to feel after that, and by God did he have a lot to hate. 

Martin was back in the basement. He didn't know how he'd gotten down there, but his torch wasn't working and he couldn't find the door. The dark stretched farther in either direction than he'd remembered, but he knew what waited for him there. He could hear them. He tried looking for a door, a window, any way out, but he kept walking to the end of the basement, his feet betraying his will as he got closer to her. The depths of the shadows dimmed as he progressed, and there she was, turned away from him, and he willed himself not to make a sound, not to move a muscle, but that never worked. She turned and her mouth opened wide, and the worms came pouring out of her, wriggling over each other and twitching where they dropped. Martin wasn't able to turn and run until they started after him, and by then he knew it would be too late. They would catch up. Then he saw Jon. He was standing in the doorway that Martin had spent so long looking for, and he was staring at the scene with a blank face. Martin sobbed in relief and rushed over, "Jon, thank god, we have to get out of here! She's right behind me!" Jon made no reply, but continued staring at the wave of worms coming for them. "Please, Jon!" He hugged the man, and even then he could feel the stiffness of his body. Then his arms rose hesitantly, touching Martin's back with his cold fingers. "Martin?" he said, but the worms were there, he could feel one burrow into his ankle, and then they were leaping at him, digging through his clothes, into his face, his eyes, but he didn't let go of Jon, couldn't let go, even though the man remained as stiff and impassive as stone. Then he felt hands circle around his chest from behind and the musty smell flooded him so strongly he had to gag. "Let them in, Martin," whispered Jane Prentiss, and he fell back into the darkness, consumed with the pain of the holes in his body.

He woke with a yell, sweating and tangled in the sheets. The sight of the holes in his arms sent him into a panic, and he dug at them, convinced there were worms in them and desperate to get them out. He remembered the knife at his bedside and grabbed it, placing the tip at one of the holes–God, there were so many, how could he get them all out?–and dug into his skin. The sight of the blood made him stop. He wasn't in the basement. He wasn't at the Institute, either, and aside from the wound on his arm, his skin was unblemished as ever. He reached to turn on his bedside lamp, and he realized he was in his apartment. 

Martin deliberately put the knife back on the bedside table and swung his legs over the bed. He forced himself to breathe, but his breath and body were shaking so badly he worried he might asphyxiate. Eventually he calmed down, and rose to tend to his injury. 

That dream. _Again._ But it had been different, hadn't it? Jon had never spoken to him before. But, no, he still felt himself being eaten from the inside, could still almost smell Jane Prentiss' putrid odour and hear her distorted voice. It was four in the morning. He put on the kettle.

"He's become a bit more intense–"

"He's becoming insane! Stalking employees is not appropriate behaviour, Martin, so why should we have to face it?"

"Do you think we should complain to Elias?" Sasha asked.

Tim nodded. "To start with."

Martin agreed that Jon scared him. The stalking was very intense, and he wondered how many times Jon had lurked after him. 

"Did I tell you guys how I caught him looking through my desk," Sasha complained.

"What about you, Martin? Have you seen him anywhere he shouldn't be?"

"No, but I have felt… watched. On the train. In my flat." He had lain awake in the dark for hours before the feeling went away, then couldn't fall asleep from fear it would come back. That night being right after he visited Jon seemed like a coincidence at the time. He suspected it was not.

His anxiety didn't keep him from stopping by Jon's place with some supper. He knocked, but there was no answer. He tried calling Jon's phone, but it was turned off. Eventually he tried the handle, and found it to be unlocked. He went inside quickly, shutting the door and reaching in the dark for a light switch. His fingers found the switches and he flipped them on. 

He looked around the room, somehow larger without Jon in it. He put the takeaway in Jon's fridge and did a quick round of dishes, just coffee mugs and cereal bowls that had been piling for a couple of days. 

When he was done he wandered around, running fingers over Jon's minimalist furniture. He didn't dare to look in his bedroom or bathroom, though he couldn't deny he was curious. He had decided to leave a note and go when Jon got home. 

Martin was a bit shocked at his clothes. Faded blue jeans and a muddy green jumper that hung off his thin frame. Martin hadn't ever seen him in such casual clothes before. He was carrying two fabric shopping bags and wore a furious scowl.

"How did you get in here?"

Martin kept his cool. He had been rehearsing what he would say the entire time he'd been waiting.

"The door was unlocked. I brought you supper, and I was going to leave it in your fridge and write you a note."

"And do the dishes?" Jon asked, the suspicion in his voice unwarranted for the act.

Martin held his ground. "I don't need your permission to worry about you."

"But you do to enter my home."

"And risk wasting the food I brought?"

Jon lifted the two bags pointedly on to the counter. "I can feed myself, Martin."

"Are you?"

Jon ran a hand through his hair, and Martin saw the white of bandages around his wrist. He was sure the bandages went halfway up his arm, where the worm holes were the worst.

"I need to solve this, Martin. I don't have time for anything else."

"You mean Gertrude."

"She was shot. Don't you have any interest in finding out what happened?"

"Yes, but there are better ways to find out. If you just trust us then we could help you!"

"You can't understand," Jon said. Martin pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and Jon sat wearily. 

Without another word Martin put on a kettle for tea and warmed the takeaway he'd brought on one of Jon's white plates. Once he saw Jon eating he put away the groceries he had bought. Peanut butter. Bread. Canned peaches. A bunch of bananas. Greek yogurt. A stick of salted butter. Biscuits. Fruit cups. And a few chocolate bars.

He sat across Jon while he worked at his meal, glancing at Martin every few seconds. Martin tried to make light conversation, but he could hear the falseness in his voice. 

"Sasha and Tom are thinking about going to the beach over the weekend. Must be nice, you know, getting some sun and fresh air. London gets so dreary after a while."

"That's nice," Jon said, distracted. 

"Tim invited me to go kayaking a couple of months ago… I'm not sure if he still wants to, but hey, it kinda sounds like fun."

"You can't swim," Jon replied.

Martin wondered when he had told him that. 

Jon was staring at his palms, purposefully facing up so he didn't have to see his scars. Martin hesitated a moment before taking one of Jon's hands in his. Jon frowned for a second but didn't resist.

"I want to be here for you. Would it help to know I want to for selfish reasons? Because I feel guilty for bringing her to the Archive. It's my fault, and by helping you I can get rid of some of that guilt."

"Martin, it wasn't your fault, it was mine! You heard in her statement how much she hated me."

Martin shook his head sadly. 

"Then I forgive you for it all. You can leave me alone, guilt free."

Martin felt indignation at those words. "That's not the only reason I want to help."

"What else is there?" Jon grumbled.

Martin noticed he was drawing circles into the top of Jon's hand with his thumbs, and stopped. Jon followed his gaze and they stared at their joined hands for a time. 

"Oh," said Jon. 

Martin was glad that he didn't pull away, but his breath felt caught in his throat as he resumed his thumb strokes, avoiding Jon's eye. The silence of the room was such that they could hear the distant wail of sirens and rumble of traffic outside the closed window. The sun had just set, leaving the world a dark blue tone that shone with enough city lights to sparkle from space. A clock ticked somewhere in the flat. Jon took a shaky breath and put his other hand on top of Martin's. He slid out of Martin's clasp and closed his hands around Martin's, giving him a brush before pulling away. 

"Thank you for the supper, Martin."

Martin stood, feeling awkward yet a bit euphoric. 

"I'll see you later," he promised. He heard Jon setting the locks as he walked towards the stairs.

Tim spent one night each week getting drunk at a club and reaching for a feeling of normal. If he happened to meet someone cute, then that was even better. There were bad days, of course, where he'd gotten sick instead of lucky and ended up alone in the city, drunk and miserable. It was on a night like that when he'd called Sasha.

"I need to talk to you," he'd managed to say, consciously clipping his words so he wouldn't slur. 

"Tim? It's two in the morning." Sasha sounded alert, despite apparently just waking up.

"Please, Sasha, we need to have a proper discussion, and I'm sick of you avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding–"

"I'm coming over now," he said, and hung up, waving a wild arm at a passing taxi.

Sasha was waiting for him. She was wearing shorts and a shirt that was too large for her. She smiled when she looked up at him, and Tim cursed himself for doing this drunk, for he hadn't recognized her at first. 

"Sasha," he breathed.

"Tim."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for calling you so late. I've been drinking. I mean thinking. Both, actually." He cracked a smile, and Sasha mirrored it warmly.

"It's okay, Tim. I was having trouble sleeping anyways."

She led him to her living area and sat him on her couch. He had been there enough times that he felt comfortable, and he sank into the cushions with a groan. Sasha handed him a water which he sipped at, growing anxious now that she was in front of him.

"We kissed, right? You remember that?"

Sasha nodded, eyebrow wrinkling as she tipped her head at him. "And the next day Jane Prentiss attacked."

"Yes. But that's not important right now. You said you like me, and I said I like you. Is that true?"

Sasha nodded again, looking confused as if she didn't understand what he was talking about. 

"Then why have you been avoiding me? Why did you get a boyfriend?"

"Tom? Are you jealous of him?"

"No! I mean, yes, of course. But I'm mostly confused. Are you okay? We used to be able to talk about stuff like this."

Sasha turned away, her hair a curtain in front of her face. "I guess I didn't really believe you," she said. "When you said you liked me."

"What? Of course I do. I like you more than anyone I've ever met!"

She turned to him, eyes glittering. "Say it again," she whispered. 

Tim felt a shiver go up his spine. "I like you. I want you to be my girlfriend. I want you to quit the Institute with me. I want to be able to talk to you again."

Sasha rose to her knees, putting a hand on the couch beside Tim's head to support herself, and touched her fingertips to his neck. 

"Say it again."

"I like you, Sasha," Tim spoke the words softly. 

She kissed him, rough and passionate, biting his lip and digging her fingers into his arm. Her lips dragged over his stubble and to his neck, speaking the words into his skin. "Could you love me?" she asked. 

Tim moaned softly, "Yes."

She stroked his chest and explored his shoulders, straddling him and rocking her hips against his. Tim didn't touch her, feeling it would be wrong to do so, but let her have him as she liked. He felt dizzy with pleasure, and had the fleeting thought that the water was drugged. The bottle cap hadn't been sealed. But the thought was washed away as Sasha unbuckled his pants and brought herself slowly onto his hardness.

Tim woke on Sasha's couch the next morning with an awful hangover. When he recognized where he was, the night before came back to him. The specific events were blurry, but he had images of Sasha, naked, all limbs and skin and feeling. He traced the welting sore from her biting down on his shoulder, sore and already bruising. 

He searched for some joy in what had happened but his sick stomach erased any such thoughts from his head. It hadn't felt right. It was good, of course, but he must have been more wasted than he thought, because the sense of wrongness ate at him. Was it Sasha? She had been acting differently since Jane Prentiss' attack, but so had everyone. Maybe it was Tim? He had been desperate for a human connection, with Sasha, preferably, and now that he'd finally achieved it, he felt more hollow than ever. 

He rose from the couch and collected his clothes, calling out Sasha's name. There was no reply. It was only half past seven, and a Sunday morning. Where could she have gone? 

Thinking she might be picking them up coffee he went into the shower, feeling hot and musty from the night before. He stopped when he saw his body in the mirror. He was fit, as always. Exercise had always been a relaxing thing for him, and match that with a slightly above average face and he knew he was quite handsome. Was, being the descriptor word. He traced his fingers over the holes on his face and neck, healing well enough but still likely to leave scars, according to his doctor. The went halfway up his arms and peppered his ankles; just looking at them gave him that visceral, invasive sensation of those teeth penetrating his skin and wriggling through his flesh. He turned away from his reflection and into the hot shower, turning the water on hot enough to scale and leaning into that blessed feeling.

Hours went by without Sasha returning, so Tim decided to leave. The wrong feeling didn't leave him, and neither did his sour gut and throbbing headache. He felt sick, physically and emotionally. What he needed was to hit something. Hard. His mind was drifting to his gym as a welcome relief when he saw Jon in the coffee shop across from Sasha's place. He was in "disguise," but Tim knew him straight away. He was watching him, probably watching Sasha, too. Anger boiled up from his gut as he stormed across the street, ignoring the honk of a car that had to break in front of him. Jon stood at his approach, looking desperately for an escape, but he hadn't gotten a few steps from the door of the shop before Tim grabbed him and pushed him against the wall, eliciting a cry of alarm.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here," Tim growled.

"Tim, please, you have to listen–"

"No! Didn't you get the message? We're sick of your paranoia. Why you haven't been fired is a mystery, but I'm sure the police wouldn't be so forgiving as Elias Fucking Bouchard about _stalking._ "

"Tim. There's something I found out about Sasha. She's not who we think, I just need to be certain–"

"Stop! Just shut up, would you? I've known Sasha for years, Jon. You barely even talk to us!"

"I know, I'm sorry, but please, listen. She's been going in the tunnels. I have it on tape. Look, I don't know if she killed Gertrude or, or if she knows something about it, but I know, I _know_ that she's connected–"

Tim punched him. It wasn't as satisfying as he hoped, but he smiled maniacally as Jon tried to catch himself on the wall, finally silent.

"Don't come near Sasha again," he said, and stormed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I know employees of the archive don't get dream visits from Jon but I found that out after I wrote this, and it was too good to take out, so consider it a fun little extra (because I consider every other part of this fic canon thank you).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the events leading to the end of season two.

Jon eyed Sasha suspiciously as she placed her report on his desk. She didn't seem as put off by his unfriendliness as the others were; she even went so far as to smile at him, a small, knowing thing. Was she trying to say something with that smile? Was he really going insane?

Martin came in a few moments later with a mug of tea, folder tucked under his arm. His smile seemed much more genuine, if a bit fatigued. He put the mug, smelling deliciously of sugar and spice, on his desk.

Jon couldn’t help smiling back as he thanked Martin, always unerringly on time with Jon’s caffeine boost.

“By the way,” Martin said, “I got Elias to call the repair guy for the printer, so he should be in today or tomorrow.”

“Good,” Jon replied, though he had to hold back the kick of anger he felt at hearing such mundane issues. 

Martin seemed to sense that, as he looked nervously away from Jon’s face and took a step towards the door.

“Well, then, I’ll get back to it.”

Jon didn't mean to speak, but the word, “Wait,” stumbled out of him before he couldn’t stop it.

Martin turned back, a hand on the door frame. Jon couldn’t tell him the truth. That he had been missing their late night conversations, missed Martin’s simple company, whether he was silent or not. He couldn’t tell him what emotions he had felt the night Martin had held his hand. Even he didn't know what they were; he only registered them as a relief at the time, like stepping into a warm shop to escape the bite of winter. He wanted Martin to hold his hand again, to tell him he wanted to keep him safe, that he was there for him. Absolutely ridiculous thoughts to be having, much less share them with his subordinate. He reminded himself that he was traumatized, and that sort of thing does strange things to people. And, he reminded himself brutally, he shouldn’t just trust Martin because he’s Martin. 

“Uh, thank you for the tea,” he said instead.

Martin shot him a half smile, lifting a brow. “You already said that.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

“You’re welcome, Jon,” Martin said, before stepping out the door.

He shouldn’t trust Martin just because he seemed innocuous and simple; he had already shown Jon that he may not be either. Nor should he trust him because he was growing fond. In fact, Jon decided, he should distance himself as much as possible from the man. It would hurt less if he found himself suddenly betrayed.

Tim was making his way back from the bathroom when Sasha came up to him. He was about to smile and say hello when she shoved him against the wall, smashing her mouth against his and grinding her hips up into him. Her hands snaked up his shirt, cold and digging, and he had to fight to pull his mouth away from hers to hiss, “Stop! We’re at work, stop!”

Sasha hummed into his collarbone as she bit the skin there, eliciting a huff of pain from Tim. He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to push her, gently, away, but she seemed solid as stone. Sasha looked at him through her lashes, smiling coyly and ignoring his protests.

“Don’t you love me, Tim? Don’t you like this?” She palmed him through his pants, and Tim couldn’t help the rush her hand sent through him. 

He pushed her harder. She stumbled away from him, a shocked expression taking over her face. Tim was about to apologize when the expression dropped into neutrality. 

“I knew it,” she said. “You men are all the same.” She laughed, as if the words were insanely funny, then spun and walked away, still laughing.

Tim stared after her, heart pounding in his chest. He could see someone staring at him from down the hallway, but they entered the office next to them when they saw him look back. A red flush of embarrassment and anger swept over his face. What was wrong with her? Would she have really tried to fuck him in the middle of the hallway, where anyone could see? That was so unlike her that he wondered if she was drunk or under the influence somehow. She’d never been big on that stuff before, but how well did he really know her? They’d hung out as co-workers, and she’d always been more practical than him, less spontaneous. Suddenly it was as if a stranger was working next to him, someone he didn't understand, and didn't want to.

He didn't walk her home that night. He didn't even say goodbye to her, but he saw her smile when he glanced back, staring at him with unreadable eyes. Sweat broke out on his back as he walked out as if her eyes were stroking him. He bought a bottle of whiskey on his way home and huddled with it in front of his TV, trying not to think of her, or Jon, or anything. 

Danny. The name popped into his mind after his sixth shot of whiskey, and he spoke it aloud. “Danny.” With everything that had been happening, he had barely thought of his brother, barely put any effort into finding out what happened to him. He began to cry, wondering what his brother would think of him, drinking his misery and accomplishing nothing. He threw the bottle at the wall and it smashed with a satisfying crash. He stood and stared at the shards, glittering liquid and glass reflecting the light of the TV. He didn't even know what he’d been watching, and he no longer cared. Swaying slightly, he went to bed, but he didn't sleep. He stared at his ceiling and concentrated on the rage bubbling inside of him like magma. No more girls, no more bosses. Fuck them all. He had a mission, and if he had to burn to get the answers he wanted, then he’d gladly turn to ash.

An old man lay slumped against the back wall of Jon’s office, face barely recognizable as human under the bloody mess that was his skull. Jon was nowhere to be seen, but Tim cursed his name like it was a verdict. Martin didn't pay attention as Tim scrambled to pull out his phone and dial 999, didn't listen to his call as he ran out of the office and towards the stairs. His heart was already beating fast enough to cripple him, but he paid no mind to it or the draining act of running up the stairs and down the halls towards the main entrance. He paused in the late evening summer air, warm orange air from the sunset cloying his lungs as he searched the streets frantically for the dark head of Sims. Strangers walked the sidewalks, paying him barely a glance as they hurried their way home; cars sped by, blind to his panic and uncaring as the limitless sky to a falling star. He ran to the only place he could think of, breath rasping in his chest but barely cognisant of the pain. 

The ride on the subway served to calm him a bit, though he paced back and forth, cursing each new passenger and willing time to serve him this one goodness and arrive at Jon’s flat before… before what? The thought was forbidden to him, the idea of what Jon could do, had already done. The image of that old man in his office was a backdrop on his mind, but he pushed it aside desperately. Jon was in trouble, and to him, that was all that mattered.

He stormed up the steps of Jon’s apartment building and rushed to the familiar door, banging on it before remembering himself. He had to be gentle. He had to be kind. Whatever Martin felt, it would be nothing compared to what Jon felt. What he’d done… Martin couldn’t bare to think of his Archivist, small, unassuming, doing what had been done to that man… 

Tim seemed sure that it had been Jon. Even Martin couldn’t help but believe it, considering they were the only people in the building. Considering how Jon had been acting last he saw him.

The door didn't open, so Martin tried the handle. Locked. 

“Jon?” he called out. “Jon, it’s me. Can you let me in?”

The silence on the other side had a shape to it, but no hands moved to undo the locks. Martin tried again, “Jon, please. I’m here. I want to help you. Please, Jon.”

Moments passed like minutes before Martin heard the rattle of chains and the scrape of the lock opening. Inside Jon’s apartment was dark, but the yellow light from the hallway illuminated his gaunt face.

“Inside, quick,” Jon said, and Martin was pulled in, quickly shut into darkness as Jon slammed the door behind him. Martin stumbled forward a moment after Jon let go of his shirt, and felt blindly at the wall until he found the light switch. Jon flinched with the light, and stepped back as if he could escape it.

“Jon, what the hell…”

“I need to leave,” Jon was saying. “They’re going to come after me, I know it. I’m sure they know where I live, I mean, you knew. Was it you who killed him? God, it would be, wouldn’t it. Everything I’ve done these past few weeks has been a bloody mistake!”

Jon ran his hands through his hair, clutched it, then let them drop. “I need to leave.” Martin followed him to his bedroom, saying, “Jon, calm down. Tell me what happened and I’ll help you fix it. I’ll keep you safe, I’ll-” Martin reached the doorway and stopped. Jon’s bedroom walls were covered with papers, pictures and stolen statements that Martin recognized by the Archive’s seal. His own profile, shot through a window of him mid bite in a sandwich. Sasha, sitting on a park bench with a man whose face was hidden. Crumpled papers littered the floor and dirty dishes were on every surface. Martin looked behind him at the spotless living area and kitchen and realized Jon truly hadn’t been living there. 

“Oh, Jon…” The Archivist wasn’t paying him any mind, however. He had found a backpack and was shoving clothes into it with a frantic energy, then pushed past Martin to storm into the bathroom. 

“I’m running out of time, they’re probably going to be here soon. Martin! Check outside! Anything suspicious, tell me! Go, man!” 

Martin ran to the door and glanced down the empty hall. 

“There’s nobody here! Please, Jon, you’re not thinking straight. If you talk to the police they’ll protect you-”

“No! They’ll blame me, I know it. I know it.”

Jon hefted the half shut bag over his shoulders and went for the door, but Martin was standing in front of it and didn't move.

“What are you going to do, hm? You think you’ll be safer on the streets? Come to my flat, Jon. Just… trust me. Please.”

Jon looked down at Martin’s splayed out hands. 

“I have a plan,” he said in a voice that drifted off. He brought his hands up to rest on Martin’s and Martin didn't hesitate to grip them tightly. To his horror, tears started falling down Jon’s pocked face. “I’m always frightened. Even you… You scare me sometimes, Martin. The mail scares me, God damned dogs scare me. I’m so sick of it.”

Jon sniffed but didn't move to wipe his tears, instead staring fixedly at their hands together.

“I have to go Martin. Let me go.”

Martin didn't realize he was crying until Jon reached up to wipe his face. 

“Don’t look for me, okay?”

Martin choked on a breath and wrapped Jon up in both arms. Jon stiffened, but quickly relaxed and returned the hug, breath shuddering his frame. Martin could hear his heartbeat, fast and rattling, beating against his own.

“Eat well, all right? You’re all bones.”

Jon chuckled, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. “I’ll miss you’re constant nagging.”

“We’ll see each other soon, yeah? I’ll do whatever I can. Promise me we’ll see each other soon?”

Jon was silent in Martin’s arms, and Martin let him slip away, face set, nose red, and eyes clear.

“I’ll get answers. If it’s the last thing I do. I can promise you that.”

Martin didn't turn to watch him slip out the door after a final squeeze of his hand. He didn't stop crying for some time after, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classic Jon, making things all about him when Martin just escaped the spiral and saw his coworker do funky shit with her limbs. We're short, but I'm hoping to go all the way! Should I do a Basira POV? Mayhaps a Melanie? We shall see...


End file.
